Tell us a Story, Mother
by Layered like an Onion
Summary: Christine's children ask for a story about the Angel of Music when they cannot sleep one night, and it stirs memories from her past...


**LlaO****- I had started this a long time ago and I never got to finish it until now. I could never seem to word it correctly (I'm an uber-perfectionist when it comes to my writing). I couldn't make it sound just perfect until now. This is set after Phantom of the Opera takes place, and is based solely on Leroux's novel. Enjoy! :D**

Christine was content with her new life. She and Raoul had been settled in the Scandinavian countryside for almost ten years, and she was at ease knowing that her days could slide back to a normal human life. She had a normal loving husband, two normal adoring children, and a normal house. No more kidnappings via trapdoors, no more disembodied voices singing through mirrors, no more living in fear for her life and her (at the time) fiancé's. One evening she was curled up in an armchair and thoroughly engaged in a novel when she heard little bare feet padding across the floorboards. Her two young children bounded into the sitting room: a little girl of eight years and her younger brother of six.

"Mother, we cannot sleep!" the girl exclaimed.

"We went to see Father, but he is working late in the drawing room—" her brother started to say.

"—and we came to see you instead!" She finished eagerly for him, excitedly winding a little finger around the fabric of her nightgown.

Christine set down the leatherbound book and smiled at her kids. "And how do you suppose I remedy this sleeplessness?"

"Tell us a story, mother! Please?" the boy pleaded.

"Yes, a story! One about the Angel of Music!" the girl agreed.

"Why not one about Little Lotte? Can I not include her?"

"Tell us more about the Angel! Please, Mother? _Please?_" They begged. She gave in and motioned for them to sit on the floor. The children sat and stared at their mother in anticipation.

"Now, you both know the stories of Little Lotte and her Angel of Music, correct?"She began. They nodded in unison. "But do you know the story of how the Angel came to meet Little Lotte?" They shook their heads no. "Well, the Angel of Music had not always known Lotte."

"What was the Angel of Music like, Mother?"

She sighed heavily and stared at the roaring, crackling flames of the hearth, recollecting the cheerless memories of her Angel. "Almost perfect."

"'Almost'? Why _almost_ perfect?" The boy piped up.

"Because the Angel of Music was a fallen angel." The children gasped.

"Why had he fallen? What did he do?" The girl questioned.

"It's not what _he_ did; it is what the other angels did to him. You know, the story of the Angel of Music is dreadfully sad and is not quite fit for a bedtime story. Perhaps I should save this tale for some other time?" The children enthusiastically refused to be prevented of the story.

"I supposed not. Well, the other angels did not understand his music. It was too zealous and fiery for their tastes. You see, from living in Heaven, they had not heard the music of humans and therefore detested anything other than their pure celestial tunes. True, the Angel of Music loved to play those as well, as any other angel would, but he _had_ heard the passionate music humans had written, and so he formed a love for it. So they forced him to leave Heaven. They ripped up his music, taunted him. They broke his wings and sent him plummeting."

"I never thought angels could be so cruel. I thought they were so peaceful," said the boy.

"And most are," she reassured. "But these angels were jealous and spiteful. He was now one of the Fallen; on no account was he allowed to return to the glory of Grace, but also never permitted to descend lower than the World of Man either. The Angel of Music wandered all across the Earth for many countless years, observing both the great beauty and the great cruelty that humans could achieve. He would occasionally take human form and take part some of these things. He had drifted the length and breadth of the world when he came across Little Lotte, with her long red scarf and her kind doll and her fiddle. Every night, he would sing to her, as soft as the old Korrigans' footsteps on a church stairway. She loved listening to him sing, and she never woke up without a smile on her pretty little lips." Her children were now beginning to yawn and rub their eyes, their little shoulders slumping with weariness.

"Come, you both have played the day and night away, it should be high time you two have gotten to bed." She kissed each of them on the forehead before sending them back to their room for the night.

Once they had sleepily trudged down the hall, Christine couldn't concentrate on her book any longer. She paced the room, she tried humming her little childhood tunes, _anything_ trying to rid herself of the haunting memories of her past. Finding that she couldn't, she walked to the window and opened the pane, thankful for the fresh gust of air that came into the room in the wake of the open glass. She gazed up at the dark nighttime sky, remembering the man who used to be her angel. She had long forgiven him for the things he had done, but try as she might, she could never forget. Memories replayed themselves over and over in her mind. She had left him shattered and cold, a shell of the powerful person he had once been in her presence. Yes, she remembered her Angel of Music, her infamous Opera Ghost, her Erik.

She had done the right thing; she surely would've gone mad if she was forced to stay in that tomb for all eternity, loving something worse than death itself. She had done the right thing; but why did it feel so wrong? Her guilt weighed heavy across her shoulders, and no matter what Raoul could say, no matter what he could do to comfort her, she knew that guilt would devour her the rest of her life. Staring up at the moon, she shed a single tear and closed her blue eyes, Little Lotte's sea blue eyes.

"Forgive me_, mon ange_..." She whispered into the wind.

She could never tell, but it seemed like the wind whispered back her name, the exact same way he had said it before she left him, full of broken promises and sorrow:

"_Christine..."_


End file.
